The Carrero Heart - Beginning (book 1 of Heart trilogy)

4

I wake up with a dry mouth, burning eyes and pounding head as the sound of music assaults my senses. Arrick has tunes pounding through the floors as I blink awake and realize I am still on the couch, face down, and the blanket is wrapped around my legs like freaking restraints. I feel like utter shit, and the table is littered with cold pizza and the scraps of a weird middle of the night scramble for food. We ate, fell asleep and woke up at the same time. Well actually, stretching out and slapping the back of my hand in his face was the catalyst for his grumpy rise from the dead, and he did try to push me off the sofa in retaliation.

We raided the kitchen for munchies, watched another movie for like an hour while grumpily arguing over absolute pointless crap because we were both tired, and in my opinion, Tom Cruise is far hotter with an Irish accent and boxing gloves, than he is in either Top Gun or Cocktail. We both must have fallen asleep after that, as everything beyond the horse dying in 'The Never Ending Story' is hazy in my head.

I can still see the indent on the cushion beside me from his head and the whole couch and I smell like him. I guess he stayed here with me the full night after all.

I groan and look around, spying him in the kitchen, singing to himself as he makes a fresh pot of coffee. He's still rumpled and wearing last night's clothes too, so I'm guessing he hasn't been up for long either.

"Ughh, shut up." I yell at him and go back to burying my head under the pillow I have been lying on. Annoyed that I have had like no sleep and he is being his usual happy, chirpy morning person self that grates on my nerves. I'm fairly sure he got as little sleep as me and it is way too early for this kind of nonsense.

I swear the music gets louder.

I sit up in a rage and glower at him across the kitchen, and catch him smirking my way, remote pointed at the stereo with that childish look of a mean boy. Sometimes I love him to bits and sometimes, like right now, he is a total ass who makes my life a living hell just for the fun of it. I think he gets off on torturing me because he does it frequently. He turns it back down with a chuckle and aims that full Hollywood smile my way.

Trying to melt me with dazzling smiles is not going to work.

"Morning beautiful, you're looking a little rough around the gills." He nods at me earning another glare, and I at once set about trying to wipe my eyes awake and tame the hair that is tickling my face. More like welded to my face as I rip a strand off my cheek.

I sit up slowly, stretch out and yawn three times before rubbing at my face again. The grubby residue that ends up on my hands alerts me to the fact I slept in tear-stained makeup and probably look like a train wreck. I groan and get up to lazily trudge to his room for the nearest bathroom; the spare room is the one I normally get sent to, but his is closer, and I am still exhausted.

"The walk of a very hungover, grumpy little miss," he jests after me, meeting an extended middle finger thrown back at him without even looking his way. In no way have I ever been a morning person and with an added hangover I can see me choking him with my bare hands. He laughs as I push open his door and shuffle into his immaculate bedroom, which is still in darkness from not opening the blinds in here. It's completely clean and neat with a fully manicured and made bed because he obviously never came in here at all.

I groan at the fright which awaits me in the bathroom mirror. My long blonde hair is bed messy and standing up, tangled crazily due to the natural waves that I straighten out of my hair religiously. My face looks like I have been face painted as a panda then stood in a downpour for shits and giggles to let it run off, and I most definitely have bloodshot eyes and a puffy set of bags under both. I look exactly how I feel.